


Love is everything it isn't supposed to be

by caseykaboom



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Steve Feels, Steve/Tony if you read 1796 Broadway, art is art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caseykaboom/pseuds/caseykaboom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dedicated to Becky from “1796 Broadway”, by teaberryblue and rainproof. Will only make sense if you read that first. Set around Chapters 88-134.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is everything it isn't supposed to be

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [1796 Broadway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972937) by [rainproof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainproof/pseuds/rainproof), [teaberryblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue). 



“Gosh, no,” Steve said. “I could only ever handle pencils. Maybe a bit of watercolour. ”

Becky’s laugh was crisp and easy. Like her entire person, really. Steve liked that about her. “Yeah, charcoal makes a flaming mess, huh?”

Her language was bright and visual, and Steve liked _that_ about her, too. He chuckled and nodded. “Yep. And the one time I handled oils I had such an asthma attack that my mother banned it from the house. I coughed for the whole day.”

Becky’s laughter rang out again, and Steve had to stop sketching to tell her to sit still. It was a brilliant afternoon at Central Park. They had visited the Met again, just the two of them this time, Clint saying he’d rather stay at the Tower and shoot stray pigeons. Steve was out of the uniform, with a baseball cap on his head and Becky’s arm looped around his. No-one saw Captain America. People walked right past him.

He could get used to this. After 70 years, he felt like he could breathe again.

+++

“What about 3-dimensional stuff?” Becky stepped out of the shower and asked casually, towelling her hair dry. Steve wondered, distantly, about the ease she carried herself with in a bachelor’s apartment. Confidence, he decided, he liked confidence. He had always liked confidence.

“What about it?” he asked back.

“Oh, you know,” Becky shrugged, a smile at her lips. “Do you like them, did you do any, would you be interested in making some these days, or whatever.”

Steve considered it. “I like more of the traditional stuff, old statues and things like that. I’ve never done- actually, no, I’ve done- or I’ve _tried_ to do- a conceptual piece before,” he laughed at the sudden influx of memory. They were good times.

“Conceptual art! No way- those are- did the term even _exist_ back then?”

“No, but the notion was there. _Fountain_ was known even at the war front, can you believe that? Not the idea behind it but as a thing that existed, I guess. People kept asking me about it, too, because I’m from New York and all. It was embarrassing,” Steve admitted. “Not- I mean, art is art, but some things are just. You know?”

“I know,” Becky giggled. _Right, art gallery manager_ , Steve reminded himself. “Wow. I can’t even imagine. But you have to tell me about your piece- hold that thought though, gotta blow my hair dry.”

Becky ducked back into the bathroom, and the blow-dryer clicked on. Steve looked down at his hands and thought about Bucky, Bucky’s strong hands and long fingers, Bucky crushing the empty soda can that he had just shared with Steve. It brought him a melancholic sort of happiness now, thinking about how obliviously in love he was. _It seemed so easy then_ , he smiled to himself and shook his head. By the time Becky was sitting cross-legged in front of him, he had filed his memories and organized what he wanted to say.

“Uh, right. It was- you know those aluminum soda cans? They just came out in the 30s, and it became really fashionable to drink from them. The metal was recycled, but there was no recycling program like now, instead you hang on to your empty cans and sell them to collectors by weight. Anyway- the point is, they were worth money, so you couldn’t just find them on the street.

“I had this vague idea for- I don’t know, really, it was just a crude image in my head- but I wanted to string crushed cans together, lots of them, and I’d hang them in an open space somewhere, and they would reflect light and make noise. It’s pretty laughable, you’d have to admit.” Becky made a noise and shook her head, and Steve had to smile.

“I had this crazy friend,” Steve continued, “that pushed me into doing all sorts of crazy stuff. Once he tried to get me- Little Stevie, barely able to take care of himself- to bring two dames home. At the same time. I don’t even know. That’s still frowned upon, isn’t it? –-Right, of course it is. Except for Tony Stark, yes, hah. I don’t think he even realized- anyway, that’s sidetracking.

“So I told him about my idea, and he took it upon himself to collect those cans for me. We had… almost a dozen, I think. And then we both got deployed.”

_And then I let him die._

Becky opened her mouth, and it was a few seconds before Steve registered her. “You okay, babe?” She had asked. Steve looked down and found Becky’s hand on his wrist. He took it into his own hand and held it, grateful for the warmth.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Sorry, just- getting tired.”

“Hey, it’s all right,” Becky squeezed his hand, and changed the subject. “Have you heard anything back from Stark?”

+++

The next day, Becky and Clint began collecting cans for Steve. Natasha and Bruce joined in. They acquired an alarming number within a few hours. Steve tried not to think about the amount of beer they each had to ingest. 

+++

The night Becky left, Steve went back to his apartment, and saw what must be hundreds of cans, in the living room and the kitchen, stacked and strewn, in boxes and on the counters. He slid down the wall and held his head down.  _Captain America, hah, who dreamed this shit up?_ It was so laughable. If he woke up now he would have laughed.

Steve dreamed of flying, sometimes. He flew over bustling town squares, rolling green hills with hidden villas, vast expanses of water. The sunlight on his back felt real. The wind in his face felt real. When he woke up there was always a moment of confusion, when he breathed too easily and his feet were too far from his body, and he had to remind himself: he was Captain America, he was 6’2, he was 23 and 93, everyone he knew was dead. _This_ was real.

Other times he dreamed of drowning.

He got up and began crushing the cans. Two at a time, one in each hand. It was strangely therapeutic.

+++

They set it up on the roof. It was unflattering. The roof was wet, it was cold, and the remaining rainclouds threw patchy shadows on the patchy concrete. A gust of wind picked up the strings of crushed cans- they were dull and the colors clashed, and when sharp bits occasionally reflected light it stung the eyes. They swung, and swung back, spun, twisted, twisted into each other, knocked into each other, rasped and grated on each other. The sounds they made were tinny and discordant and sometimes ceased altogether, but with the next gust of wind they came back, they kept coming back. It made Becky’s stomach twist.

“Wow, Cap,” Clint breathed, finally. “What’s it called?”

“ _Love_ ,” Becky said, and if her voice shook a little they all pretended not to notice.

**Author's Note:**

> Fountain, by Marcel Duchamp, was installed in 1917 in New York.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fountain_(Duchamp)
> 
> The term "conceptual art" was coined in 1961.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conceptual_art#History
> 
> Aluminum cans were used for beverages starting in 1935.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beverage_can#History
> 
> The "sell your cans to metal collectors for money" thing was true in many Asian countries. I'm not sure if it ever happened in America.


End file.
